


Stop Whispering

by geekwriter143 (Sena)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: M/M, Meeting the Parents, Podfic Available, Post Grave Danger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sena/pseuds/geekwriter143
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jillian Stokes thinks it's a good idea to retrieve a few things from Nick's townhouse.  Originally posted in 2005.</p><p><a href="http://amplificathon.livejournal.com/1075220.html">Podfic available</a>, read by BessyBoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop Whispering

Jillian fumbled with the keys in her hands as she tried to figure out which one would open the front door. She found the right key to unlock the deadbolt, then had to look for the one to open the doorknob.

She sighed once she was finally inside Nick's townhouse. It was dark inside, lit only by a bluish glow coming from the large aquarium that separated his kitchen from his dining room. She tipped her head to the side and walked towards the aquarium, mesmerized as she watched fish swim in slow circles, watched sea anemones drift lazily in the current. She hadn't even known Nick liked fish, let alone liked them enough to set up an aquarium as complex as the one she was looking at.

She hugged Nick's keys to her chest. She'd come so close to losing him, and that just made her realize how little she knew him. She didn't know why it surprised her, the fierce and unwavering support of Nick's coworkers. She'd expected it when they were still working the case. She'd expected them to be as driven as they were when they were scrambling frantically to find Nick—her Nick. She thought it was just what they did, just another case. She hadn't realized at the time that he wasn't her Nick at all; he was theirs.

But then, at the hospital, they'd all been there. Not just Dr. Grissom and Nick's supervisor, Ms. Willows. Everyone had been there. It seemed the whole lab had been there, people who didn't even go in to see Nick but they were there anyway, waiting for word, waiting to make sure he really was OK, waiting to see if there was anything, anything at all, they could do for Nicky.

Nicky. It was always Nicky, never just Nick. No one had ever called him Nicky before, not even when he was a little boy. It had always been Nicholas or Nick or, in Bill's case, Pancho—such a silly little nickname. No one had ever called him Nicky, but every one of his coworkers did. They said it lovingly, possessively, as if when they said Nicky what they were really saying was my Nicky. She supposed they were.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, let her shoulders droop. She hadn't gotten much rest since they first got the call. She'd slept some at the hospital, some at the hotel, but she'd slept fitfully. She gave herself a moment to be tired, then shook her shoulders. She had work to do. She had to gather a few things to bring Nick, a few things to make the hospital room less sterile. It occurred to her that she didn't even know her own son well enough to know what would make him feel at home, but she pushed the thought roughly to the back of her mind. There was no point in moping.

She had just turned to find a light switch when she heard a man's voice saying, "Freeze!" at the same time the barrel of a gun came into her vision.

Jillian gasped and stepped back and the man gasped, too, raised the gun, and slumped against the wall. "Jesus Christ," he said as he flipped the safety back on. "Give me a fucking heart attack."

"You scared the life out of me!" Jillian cried. She recognized him as one of Nick's coworkers, though she didn't know his name.

"Right back at you. Christ." He turned on a light "You've never heard of knocking?"

"What are you doing here?" she asked, heart still beating in her throat.

"I live here," he said. He scratched the back of his neck as he walked past her into the kitchen, where he flipped on the coffeemaker.

"Oh," she said, suddenly at a loss for words. "Oh, my, I'm…I'm terribly sorry. I was sure this was Nick's address, and his keys…" she held up Nick's A&M key ring. "Oh, I am so embarrassed."

"No need," he said, waving the gun casually. He looked at it for a moment, then set it on the kitchen counter. "This is Nick's place, too. You want coffee?" He didn't wait for her response, just began filling the coffeemaker with water and grounds.

The thought that Nick might have a roommate hadn't occurred to her. Of course it would make sense for two single men to split housing costs, but Nick hadn't ever mentioned it. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I…oh, I've forgotten your name. I know we were introduced at the hospital, but—"

"Greg," he said. "Greg Sanders."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Greg," she said, extending her hand. If it seemed an odd gesture, well, her mother had always taught her that manners were important no matter the situation.

He didn't seem to think it was strange. He shook her hand and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stokes. Uh, sorry about the gun. I guess I'm a little jumpy."

"Completely understandable," she said, giving him her kindest smile. "I honestly didn't mean to wake you. I thought I'd gather some of Nick's things, try to make the hospital room a bit more cheerful."

Greg nodded and lounged against the kitchen counter. He seemed unconcerned to be standing there with her in just boxer shorts and an undershirt, so Jillian did her best to remain unfazed as well.

"What kind of stuff did you have in mind?" he asked.

"Oh, you don't need to help me. I'm sure you must be exhausted. If you'll just point me towards Nick's room I'll let you get back to sleep." He did look exhausted. His face was pale except for the dark circles under his eyes. He seemed like he'd gotten even less sleep than she had.

He looked at her for a long moment and pursed his lips. He sighed. Then he picked up the gun by the butt and said, "This way. Down the hall." He turned lights on as he went and she was surprised to see the bed unmade when he led her into Nick's room. Then he smoothed the covers on the bed and put the gun back into the nightstand drawer and Jillian tried her best not to frown. He'd been sleeping in Nick's bed?

"He'll want his glasses," Greg said, heading towards the bathroom. He emerged a moment later with a glasses case, a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. He opened the closet and pulled an overnight bag from the top shelf, set everything on the foot of the bed. "What else? Clothes, maybe. For when he gets released?"

Jillian nodded and watched as he opened one of the dresser drawers and took out a pair of track pants. He retrieved a pair of underwear from another drawer, a worn red t-shirt from yet another.

"It's been cold, lately," Greg said. "At night, I mean. If they release him early in the day he'll probably want a sweatshirt." He went to the closet and retrieved an A&M zip-up hoodie Jillian recognized from Nick's days in college.

She looked at the bed, at the nightstands on either side of the bed. One nightstand was covered with magazines, wrist cuffs, empty water glasses, a stack of books with scraps of paper used as bookmarks. The other nightstand was neat. There was one book on it, with a proper bookmark, the most recent issue of Guns and Ammo and a small black notebook with a pen attached to it.

There were two robes hanging on the bathroom door. There were two cell phone chargers, two sets of work clothes folded neatly and placed on top of the dresser. Oh. The man didn't merely share Nick's townhouse, he shared Nick's life.

She turned to look at the aquarium next to the dresser, watched one of the clownfish nestle itself within the tentacles of a bubble-tipped anemone.

She heard the coffeemaker sputter and hiss. The young man, Greg, seemed thankful for the excuse to leave the room. "Do you take anything in your coffee?" he asked as he edged towards the door. "Milk? Sugar?"

Jillian was silent for a moment. Then she asked, "Can you make it Irish?"

She was just about to chide herself for making such an absurd suggestion when Greg said, "Good idea." Which is how she came to be drinking whiskey and coffee with her son's boyfriend at 3 o'clock in the afternoon.

He didn't put much whiskey in his own coffee. He gave her considerably more. She didn't know whether to be offended or touched. After she took a sip and felt the coffee warm her, the whiskey calm her, she decided to be touched. "How long?" she asked softly.

He didn't even pretend to misunderstand her question. "Three years. Almost three years. Three years in June."

"I didn't know."

He nodded. "I know."

"And your colleagues?"

"Sara knows. Sara Sidle."

Jillian thought for a moment. She couldn't place a face with the name.

"She's brunette, soft-spoken, intense."

Jillian nodded. She knew the woman he was referring to. "No one else knows?"

"I doubt it."

"But how can you be sure? Don't you know you have to be careful?" She had horrible visions of police refusing to back Nick up if something went wrong, of someone hating Nick, attacking him for nothing other than who he was in love with. Though, it was a comfort to know he was in love. She'd always worried about him being alone.

"With all due respect, Mrs. Stokes," he said, his voice icy, "Nick and I have been dating for three years. We've been living together for two and a half. We work with the best investigators in the country, and only one of them knows, and that's because we told her. We're careful."

She sat back in her chair. "Of course you are. Oh, of course you are." It wasn't like Nick was safe even if no one knew, not if the past few days were any indication. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to…this is just…"

"A shock?" he asked. His voice was much kinder, then. It matched the kindness in his deep brown eyes.

Jillian thought for a moment. "Honestly? No." It felt wrong to admit it, like she was somehow betraying Nick.

He nodded. "Yeah. My mom said she'd suspected since I was 15."

"You're close to her?" What a silly question.

"Yeah. Pretty close."

They both jumped when the phone rang. She saw the concern on his face as he reached for his cell phone and when he flipped it open she saw that his hands were shaking.

"Sanders," he said quickly, then listened for a moment. He sighed and rubbed his forehead hard with the heel of his hand. "Shit," he said, and her stomach lurched. Something was wrong. Something was wrong with Nick and they were calling to let him know. She bit her lip, torn between waiting patiently for him to finish the call and wanting to grab the phone from his hands and demand to be told what was wrong with her son.

"I'm sorry," he said with a heavy sigh. "It totally slipped my mind." He listened for a moment and his expression became pinched. "Yeah, well, have you been watching the fucking news? You spend 24 hours trying to find your best friend buried in the fucking ground somewhere and see if you remember all your appointments the next day. No, I don't…no, don't apologize. I'm sorry. You don't have to apologize….yeah, he's fine. He's going to be fine…yeah, I know. I know…I didn't mean to snap, I've just…yeah. Yeah, exactly…thanks. Look, I'll call you when things calm down…you don't have to apologize, really. I'll call you later this week, all right?"

Jillian watched him as he closed the phone. His hands had stopped shaking but he looked weary.

"I missed a meeting," he said as he set the phone down. "Phi Beta Kappa. I'm on the membership committee."

"Phi Beta Kappa?" she asked.

He nodded as he took a sip of coffee.

"I didn't know they selected members from the criminal justice department."

He smiled then. She thought he'd probably laugh if he weren't so tired. "Well, we nominate members from all areas of academia, but my undergrad degree was in chemistry."

"Your undergrad degree?"

He nodded. "Stanford. Did my graduate work at Berkeley in biochemistry."

"Impressive."

"You want my resume? See if I'm good enough?" He ran his hands over his hair and said, "I'm sorry," before she could even respond. "I'm not usually like this."

"Like what?"

"Mean." He stood and took his mug to the sink, dumped out his Irish coffee and filled the mug with fresh coffee from the pot. "I'm not handling this very well," he admitted.

"You seem to be doing all right."

"That's kind of the problem. I'm not like this. Usually everything's right there on the surface, but now it's…I don't know. I keep waiting to feel something but I'm just…pissed. I'm not an angry person, Mrs. Stokes. I know you don't know me but I'm really, really not an angry person, except that's the only thing I've been able to feel at all and it's kind of freaking me out."

"When I was younger," Jillian began, unsure of why she was even confiding in him, "I always said I couldn't ever kill anyone. Not ever, no matter what. Then I had children, and I'll tell you right now that even though they're grown, if I had to kill to protect them I could do it in an instant."

He didn't look at her but he nodded. His eyes were shiny with tears. "Except he's already dead. I wish he wasn't dead. I wish he was alive so I could kill him myself."

Me, too, Jillian wanted to say. Instead she said, "I should get back to the hospital. Do you mind if I use your phone to call a cab?"

"I'll drive you."

"Oh, there's really no need, I—"

"I'm not getting any sleep today," he told her. "And it'll take an hour to get a cabbie who's willing to come this far out without a fare. Just let me get a quick shower and I'll take you. Look around, take anything you think Nick might like."

Jillian nodded. "Thank you." She finished her coffee, then took her mug to the sink and rinsed it out, set it upside down to dry.

Nick's baseball trophies were on the bookshelf next to chess trophies she assumed must be Greg's. She smiled as she ran her fingers along the set of encyclopedias she'd gotten Nick for his 16th birthday. She still remembered how disappointed he'd been to see them instead of a car. She still remembered how hard he struggled to hide his disappointment to make her happy. She paused as her fingers brushed across a slim green volume. The Color Atlas of Sexual Assault. Lord. The things those boys saw.

She never let herself think too much about it, since even if Nick wasn't directly in the line of fire like he'd been as a policeman in Dallas, he still had to see terrible things. Awful things. Things no mother would ever wish her child had to witness. She'd nagged him incessantly to give up the police force, she admitted that. She hadn't expected for the nagging to push him into crime scene investigation, though—she'd expected him to relent and go to law school. If she'd never nagged him he might not have quit the force, might not have moved to Las Vegas, might never had ended up the pawn in some maniac's sick game of revenge.

There were rows of the Journal of Forensic Science, Forensic Science International, Nature, the American Journal of Human Genetics, the Journal of Molecular Biology. She wondered how many periodicals they subscribed to between the two of them. She wondered if they talked about things like shoe imprints and blood spatter over breakfast.

There was a framed article on the wall next to the bookcase. Genetic analysis of amplified DNA with immobilized sequence-specific oligonucleotide probes. She stared at it for a moment wondering why in the world the boys would have framed something like that. Then she saw the name of the author. G.S.H. Sanders.

"Nick did that," Greg said from behind her. "Framed it, I mean. He's worse than my mom."

Jillian closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She didn't want him to know that he'd startled her again. "That was certainly fast," she said as she turned around to find him dressed in jeans and a navy blue t-shirt, rubbing his damp hair with a towel.

He shrugged. "Get called in enough at all hours of the day, you get used to getting ready quick."

"I suppose you do."

"I was thinking about his pillow," he said, letting the towel drape over one shoulder. "You know how picky he is about pillows."

Jillian smiled. She did, actually. "That's a good idea."

"And then, um," he headed back towards the bedroom, "maybe his book? I know he's pretty heavily sedated right now, but if they keep him for a while he might want it." He picked up the book off Nick's nightstand, then gazed at it for a moment. Jillian could tell from the cover that it was a murder mystery. "Maybe not," Greg said, setting the book back down. "Maybe something lighter."

He walked around to his side of the bed and Jillian saw that he not only had books covering his nightstand, he also had a pile of books right next to it, fifteen or twenty books high. He ran his fingers down the stack, pulled out a book entitled Me Talk Pretty One Day and tossed it onto the bed.

Jillian moved forward and opened the overnight bag Greg had set out. She packed Nick's clothing neatly, followed by the pillow, the book, his glasses case, his toothbrush and toothpaste.

Greg walked over to the closet and opened it, reached for something on the shelf. "Do you think…?" he started, very uncertain. He turned to look at her and she felt her eyes sting with tears when she saw the tattered blue blanket in his hands—the blanket she'd brought Nick home from the hospital in. She hadn't known he'd kept it.

"Oh, can I?" she asked, taking a step towards him.

Greg held the blanket out towards her and she took it, unfolded it carefully. "He was so tiny when he was born," she whispered, stroking the light blue cotton. "When I wrapped him up in this he was practically swimming in it."

"Hard to imagine," Greg said.

"I can see it like it was yesterday."

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure you can."

Jillian thought his eyes really were very kind. She wondered if those soft, expressive eyes were the first thing Nick had noticed about him.

They were quiet on the drive to the hospital, at least once Greg had turned down the music that blared the second he turned the key in the ignition. Jillian closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the seat and actually caught a few minutes of sleep as Greg drove.

When they got to Nick's room the nurses were in a panic. Nick had pulled his IVs out again and was disoriented, kept trying to fight them. Jillian swallowed hard and was about to try to talk some sense into him, but Greg dropped the overnight bag on the floor and moved quickly to Nick's side, talking softly to him.

"Nicky," he whispered, "Nicky, hey, look at me. Look at me. You're OK. Yeah, that's right. That's right. Calm down. It's all OK."

Jillian could hardly bear to look at Nick. His face and arms were covered with angry red welts crowned with fluid-filled blisters. Just the sight of it turned her stomach, the sight of her baby looking like that. Greg didn't seem fazed, though, he just took Nick's hand and kept speaking to him in a slow, gentle voice.

"Nicky," he said. "I know you wanna get out of here."

Nick was crying. Jillian couldn't hear what he said in response, could just see that he was crying and terrified and there was nothing she could do.

"I know," Greg said. "I know. And I want to get you out of here. I do. I want you home. But you have to get better before they let you out, and in order to get better you have to stay in bed. I know," he said to Nick's tearful protests. "I know. But you have to get better. I can't take you home until you get better, and if you stay in bed and leave your IVs in that's going to happen a lot sooner."

"When?" Nick asked.

"A few days, OK? Just a few more days. You're dehydrated and the amount of venom in your system has made your heart a little wonky. You need the fluid in the IVs so you won't be dehydrated anymore. You need the medicine. OK?"

"I wanna go home," Nick whispered.

"I want you home, too," Greg told him. "But for the next few days neither one of us is going to get that. We brought some of your stuff, though." He looked over at Jillian. "Your mom's here. She and I brought you some things from home."

Jillian picked up the overnight bag and brought it over to them. "Hi, sweetheart," she said softly, hoping the pity and horror she felt didn't show on her face.

"Hi, Mom," Nick said. His voice was shaky and weak.

"Look what we brought for you," Greg said, keeping his voice soft but upbeat. "We brought your glasses and your toothbrush. We brought you some clothes for when you get released. We brought you your pillow. You want your own pillow?"

Nick nodded.

"I thought you would. Sit up a little," Greg said. He quickly switched out the hospital pillow for the pillow he'd brought from home. "OK, now you have to lie back and let the nurse put your IV back in. Can you do that for me?"

Nick nodded again.

"OK. I brought you something else, too." He tucked Nick's woobie in next to him. "Don't worry. I won't let Warrick see it."

Nick smiled slightly at that.

"Thanks, Kathy," Greg said as he sat down in the chair next to Nick's bed. Jillian was about to correct him when she realized he was talking to the nurse who was quickly reinserting Nick's IV.

"Could have used you half an hour ago," she said as she inspected Nick's arms, checking to see if he'd broken any of the blisters, Jillian supposed.

"I'll be here from now on," he told her, and he was. He didn't move from the chair next to Nick's bed, not even when Bill came back. His one concession was to let go of Nick's hand but Jillian could tell he wasn't leaving.

People came and went, doctors, nurses, friends of Nick's, and Greg kept his seat near the bed. Jillian sat in a chair near the window and fell asleep without realizing it. When she woke Greg was still in his chair next to Nick's bed, Bill wasn't in the room, and Dr. Grissom was standing at the foot of Nick's bed looking at his chart and listening as Greg passed on everything he'd heard from the hospital staff.

"They're keeping him sedated for now," Greg said softly.

Dr. Grissom nodded. "That's probably for the best."

"Dr. Grissom," Jillian said, standing up quickly. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to sleep right through your visit."

He shook his head. "No reason to be sorry. You need your rest. Unfortunately, I do have to get back to the lab. I just wanted to check up on Nicky."

There it was again. Nicky. Always Nicky.

"Of course. Now, I do hate to ask," Jillian said, laying her hand on Dr. Grissom's arm, "and, of course, I've no idea if you can spare him, but if it's at all possible, well…" She smiled slightly. "Nick is so much better whenever Greg's around. If you could spare him for a few nights, Bill and I would be most appreciative."

Grissom seemed to consider her request for a moment, then he nodded. "Of course," he said. She thought he seemed almost pleased.

"Thank you," Greg said softly once Dr. Grissom had left. He took Nick's hand in his once more.

Jillian looked at the pair of them, Nick sleeping peacefully, Greg gazing at him, his entire body inclined towards Nick's. "I didn't do it for you," she said. "He does seem better with you here." She reached out and touched his hair lightly, fingered a pale blonde lock.

Greg looked up at her questioningly.

Jillian pulled her hand back quickly. "Well," she said, "it's not much better than week-old tar, but I'm getting a cup of coffee. Would you like one?"

Greg nodded. "Thank you."

She smoothed her slacks down as she turned to walk out of the room in search of coffee, wondering if she should tell the boys that Dr. Grissom knew.


End file.
